


Framed and Pinned

by anysin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Attempted Seduction, Bed-Wetting, Black Markets, Bondage, Captivity, Choking, Collars, Creeper Elias Bouchard, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Dream Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Feminization, M/M, Medical Kink, Mind Games, Objectification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paddling, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Vaginal Fingering, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24991384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/pseuds/anysin
Summary: Young Jon is merchandise at the black market. Elias buys him.Ch. 6: Jon is punished for his escape attempt, and things start to get heated.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 94
Kudos: 216





	1. medical room

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings, this will be very dark.
> 
> Words used for describing Jon's anatomy: cock, cunt, folds, chest.

Jon doesn't resist when two men enter his cell and pull him up to his feet; by now, he knows they'll drag him out no matter how much he fights back, and he needs his energy for whatever comes later. He still tries to cover himself up - he's nude, like he always is in this place - but they hold on tight to his arms as they walk him out, and down the corridor.

He shudders inside as they start to march him through the building, wondering what's going to happen. Another training session, or is someone finally here to buy him? He hates the training sessions - hates the fellatio exercises, the vibrators, the constant, relentless leering - but as long as they're happening, at least he doesn't have to deal with flesh and blood people. On the other hand, if someone purchases him, maybe he has a chance of true escape. It's depressing that these are his options, but that's what his life has become now. He's a thing to be sold and bought now, not a person.

At least, not to these people. In his own mind, Jon will always be Jon, and belong to himself most of all.

Jon is taken to a medical room and forced up on a table. He does put up resistance when they push his arms above his head and shackle them to the end of the table, kicking out when they lift his legs up to the stirrups and strap them down, but he doesn't stand a chance against two grown men. His face burns with humiliation when he realizes that everyone who enters the room will have a clear view of his cunt and arse, the former which is entirely bare, having been shaved recently. He feels exposed and vulnerable in his position, which is, of course, the point.

"A customer is coming to see you," one of the two men says once he's satisfied with Jon's restraints. His eyes rove over Jon's naked body, his gaze filthy. "He wants to inspect the merchandise before he buys, so you better be on your best behavior."

"It's a perfectly good little cunt, I'm sure he'll love it," the other man says, staring shamelessly between Jon's legs. "It's just the mouth you need to watch. Not that he won't find other uses for it, but, well, first impressions."

Jon sneers, but he says nothing. He doesn't want to impress anyone, be sweet to anyone, but what choice does he have? His attempts at escaping this place have led to nothing but misery, and even though there is always the risk he could end up in the hands of someone even worse, it's also a chance for freedom. He has to, unfortunately, make a sale. Of himself.

He isn't ready for that, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself. But he has no other choice.

"I think they're coming." The men step back from the table and retreat towards the sides of the room, leaving Jon in the middle. The door opens, and Jon gets his first look at his potential buyer.

Jon's handlers have been gleeful about telling him that he's going to be bought by a massive brute who is going to take pleasure in tearing his cunt to bits. The man who enters the medical room doesn't immediately strike Jon as such a brute, but who knows; under his sophisticated exterior, he could be a monster. But for now, the man who has entered the room looks at him with cool eyes as he's joined by another man, one Jon recognizes as the supervisor of his training sessions and health check-ups. Jon grits his teeth, forcing himself to stay silent and still.

"Here we go," the supervisor says. "We took this one in after his grandmother died. He's been a lot of trouble, but he's smart and trainable, so if you like a challenge that's your boy." The supervisor glances down at Jon's body, smiling a bit. "And the body is quite nice. Untouched."

"We shall see about that," the buyer responds, putting on latex gloves as he walks towards the medical table. His eyes, strangely enough, are on Jon's face, quietly intense. "What's your name?"

"He's-"

"I would like it if he answered, please," the man says in a calm tone, giving the supervisor a brief glance over his shoulder before turning to Jon again. "So, tell me. What is your name?"

Jon didn't expect to be addressed directly like this. He doesn't know how to react first, glancing at his handlers who just give him stern stares in return.

"Jon," he says, a strange flutter in his chest. Hope? God, he doesn't afford hope, not this quickly. "My name is Jon."

"Jon. That's a good name." The man smiles at Jon, but it doesn't reach his eyes, which remain serious and focused. "Now, Jon, listen to me. I'm going to examine you now, to see if you really are a virgin. It will probably be uncomfortable for you if you are, so be prepared for that."

The man almost sounds kind, which confuses Jon. What is this? He starts to breathe faster as the man steps between his parted legs, reaching out to rest his hand on Jon's stomach, petting it. He strokes his hand down to Jon's pubic mound, brushing his fingers over Jon's cock before taking one to his folds, feeling around his entrance with the fingertip.

"Seems very tight," the man comments, pulling his hand away. Jon is panting by now, his mouth dry and his heart racing with terror. "May I masturbate him? I think he could use lubrication."

“By all means,” the supervisor says, and the man proceeds.

A latex-covered thumb brushes over Jon's cock, making him tense. His handlers stimulate him with vibrators on a regular basis, although not all the time - "wouldn't want you to lose your sensitivity," they've told him - but it's quite different to have a real person's hand touching him. The man massages his cock, reaching out to run his other hand over Jon's chest. The touch makes Jon squirm, but the man is unbothered, teasing Jon's nipples with his fingertips before dragging his hand down the length of Jon's stomach. Jon flushes hard when he realizes that his body is starting to grow warm, his cunt slicking up.

"Responsive, isn't he?" the supervisor notes.

"He is." The man's voice is neutral, but he's staring at Jon as he touches him, his eyes unreadable. "I will put my finger inside you now, Jon. Try to relax."

The man pulls his hand away from Jon's stomach and takes it between his legs, stroking the rim of his tight opening before slipping his fingertip inside. It doesn't exactly hurt, but Jon cries out in surprise anyway, his back arching against the table. The man leaves his throbbing cock be so he can spread Jon's folds further open, leaning down to take a look as he feels around with his fingertip, ignoring how Jon clenches tight around him.

"A virgin indeed," the man says, glancing at the supervisor over his shoulder. "I would like to make him climax now."

"You get to do whatever you want to him, Mr. Bouchard," the supervisor responds, taking a slow step towards the medical table, probably so that he'll have a better view. Jon tenses, breathing fast.

"Wait," he says, lifting his head up. "I've never-!"

The man - Bouchard, that's his name - raises his eyebrow. "Really? You've never had an orgasm?"

"The merchandise doesn't get to come," the supervisor declares with a smug smile. "That's a right they will have to earn with their owners. If the owner wants that, of course."

"I would have liked him to answer this, but thank you for the information," Bouchard says in a cool tone, causing the supervisor's smile to drop. Bouchard looks Jon in the eye, smiling again. "In that case, I promise to make your first orgasm good for you."

Bouchard takes his other hand to Jon's cock again, starting to rub it while he slides his finger now entirely inside Jon, who gasps over the invasion. The man keeps his finger there, stroking Jon faster and harder until he's whimpering, hips twitching against the table.

"Does it feel good, Jon?" Bouchard asks, sliding his finger back and forth within Jon's cunt. "Answer me, please."

"Yes," Jon admits, gritting his teeth. He's close, he thinks; at this point, his handlers always stop, leaving him feeling unfinished and frustrated. But Bouchard keeps going, keeps stroking him, moving his finger within Jon's slippery wet cunt.

"I want you to let loose when you come," Bouchard says, sliding his finger back and forth inside Jon, crooking it a bit and causing him to buck in his restraints. "Let me hear it."

Bouchard thrusts with his finger, once, twice, his thumb pressing down tight on Jon's cock and Jon goes over the edge with a surprised shout, hips grinding upwards to meet Bouchard's hand. It's amazing, it's horrible, it makes him burn all over. He falls back down against the table, chest heaving as he pants, tears rising into his eyes as shame washes over him.

He doesn't start sobbing until Bouchard reaches out and rests his hand on his cheek, his fingers still sticky with Jon's slick.

"Good boy," Bouchard whispers. He strokes Jon's cheekbone with his thumb, brushing away his tears as he cries, his touch the gentlest Jon has felt in a long time. It fills him with longing, but he twists his head out of Bouchard's reach, looking away.

"Jon," the supervisor says, his voice alone a warning.

"It's all right. I'm sure it's overwhelming for him." Jon can feel as Bouchard pulls away from him, but he refuses to look at him, staring at the wall past one of his handlers instead.

"Well, what do you think?" the supervisor asks, obviously trying not to sound too eager. "As you can see, he's willful, but he will break."

"It should be interesting with him, in any case," Bouchard says, and Jon can tell from his tone that he's smiling, perhaps for real this time. "I'll take him."

Jon closes his eyes.


	2. new home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets moved to his new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: dehumanization, rape threats (OMCs to Jon), containment, captivity, bondage, collars, mind games.

After Bouchard leaves with the supervisor, Jon is left alone with his handlers again. They make no move to release him from his restraints, instead watching in silence as he continues to weep, still utterly overwhelmed by what just happened. His cunt still feels wet, his cock still seems to twitch, and it's all utterly humiliating.

"I just don't get it," one handler whispers to the other. "Who cries over an orgasm?"

"A spoiled brat, that's who," the other responds with a sneer, although his contempt doesn't keep him from eyeing Jon's naked body. "I told you, we've been treating him with kid gloves all this time. I'm calling it now, Mr. Bouchard is going to return him in less than a week."

"Let's see if he's still a virgin then." The handler walks over to the table, leaning over Jon. Jon tries to pull away, but the man closes the distance between them until his mouth is right next to Jon's ear, whispering: "If you aren't, things won't be so cozy for you anymore. I, for one, will want my turn."

Jon can only shudder as the door opens again.

"Step back," a woman, one of the doctors of the place, says. Jon looks up, ignoring the man still breathing hotly on his cheek as he watches the doctor, who looks tired as she approaches the table. The handler pulls away from Jon, turning towards the doctor as the doctor addresses him: "I need to sedate him for the trip. The customer wants to take him with him right away."

Jon freezes at that.

"Please," he says, trying to catch the doctor's eye. "Can't I stay conscious? I promise, I will behave."

"Sure you do," the doctor says, avoiding Jon's gaze as she keeps her eyes on the handlers. "If you'd please prepare his arm and keep him from moving too much," she says.

"No sedation!" Jon shouts, pulling against his restraints as the handlers approach him.

It doesn't matter; they release his arms from the end of the table but before Jon can thrash too much, one of the handlers wraps an arm around his throat and squeezes tight, pinning his left arm down while the other one is stretched out to his side. The doctor prepares the syringe, never once losing her bored expression as she walks towards the table and Jon.

"I'll do anything," Jon pleads, even though it's hard to speak with his throat squeezed like this. He tries to wrench his arm away, but the handlers hold onto him tight, allowing the doctor to swab him. "Just don't-!"

The doctor slides the syringe into his arm, and before he knows it, Jon is unconscious.

*

When he wakes up, he discovers he has been blindfolded and gagged. His hands are tied behind his back and his ankles together, his knees pushed up to his chest, and as he tries to stretch out his limbs, he discovers that he's stuck in some confined space. A container, a box? Either way, Jon finds himself breathing faster, heart jumping in his chest as panic kicks in.

It has really happened. He has been sold to another person, tossed from a hell he knows into something entirely unknown. It's too much to take; he thrashes, kicking out against the walls of the box and howling behind his gag. He keeps going until he runs out of energy, collapsing onto the bottom of the box.

As a sob breaks out of him, he becomes aware of something surrounding his throat. It's heavy and thick, and his face burns when he realizes that it must be a collar. He really is like a dog now, isn't he? Except dogs don't get treated like this. He squeezes his eyes shut behind the blindfold, biting his lip so hard he can taste blood.

He hasn't had a chance to calm down when he hears rattling from above him, light pouring into the box as it's opened. Jon opens his eyes behind the blindfold, trying to peer through it as he lifts his head.

"You poor thing," Mr. Bouchard says in a soft voice, which is coming from very close. Maybe he has knelt down next to the box to get a closer look at Jon, really soak in his sad state. "Let me help you."

Jon shudders when a slim hand slides over his shoulders, stroking him. Much to his dismay, the touch doesn't feel entirely bad, and when the hand slides underneath him and urges him to sit up, he does so. It's only to his benefit after all: he wants out of the box and he wants the gag and the blindfold off, and the collar. As Jon gets up on his knees in the box, Bouchard cups his face with his hands, tipping it a little upwards.

"I'm glad you seem to be unharmed. I have heard they can get a little rough at the market sometimes." Bouchard moves his hands behind Jon's head, loosening his gag. As it falls out of Jon's mouth and down to his neck, Bouchard pulls the blindfold over Jon's head, untangling it from his hair. "How are you feeling?"

"How do you think?" Jon snaps, staring at Bouchard with narrowed eyes before looking around. To his surprise, he's indoors, a living room to be more specific; there is a television set, a sofa and armchairs, shelves with books and other items, and it's all so perfectly mundane that Jon is a little taken back. He thought he would be in some kind of a dungeon, that he would be put in a cage.

"Now, you shouldn't be rude." Despite his chiding tone, Mr. Bouchard is smiling at him, letting his hands slide over to Jon's shoulders again, resting his thumbs against Jon's jutting collarbones. "I'm interested in co-operating with you, Jon. But in order for us to achieve that, you need to work with me."

"You _bought_ me." Jon knows he shouldn't be talking back, not if he wants his restraints to be cut and the collar off, but he can't help it. He can't just swallow all of this without a complaint, like it doesn't matter what's happening to him. "You're just going to make me do whatever you want anyway."

Bouchard chuckles.

"Well, that is true," he says. "Yes, I suppose it's best not to pretend. You are my property now, Jon, and I will do what I wish with you." Bouchard stares at him as he lets the words sink in, as Jon shudders in his grasp. "But here's the thing, Jon: I'm offering you a chance to make things good for yourself. I'm offering you comfort, even a certain amount of freedom. But as I said, you have to work with me to make it happen."

Jon wants to snarl, scream that he will never. But he knows he has to be smart about this, knowing that fighting back won't get him anywhere now. He needs to know the full extent of his situation, learn his environment and who he is exactly dealing with. He breathes in and out through his nostrils, slow and steady, trying to calm himself down.

"All right," he says. "I'm sorry, I'll try."

"That's better." Bouchard stands up, letting his hands slip off Jon's shoulders. "I'll fetch us some scissors. Once we've unbound you, I will allow you to have a bath. In peace, even."

Despite himself, Jon does like the sound of that. Back at his prison, he never got to bathe or shower alone, always having to tolerate ogling from his handlers, on bad days even more. His handlers sure enjoyed their chances to grope him as they washed him themselves.

"Thank you," he says to Bouchard, and is a little embarrassed over the genuine gratitude in his voice. "Will you take the collar off too?"

Bouchard laughs, stepping away from him.

"Jon, that collar is there to keep you in line. You’ll see how." Bouchard turns from him, heading out of the living room as he calls out over his shoulder: "I'll be right back."

Jon stares after him, and the collar around his neck feels even heavier than it did before.


	3. in the bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon discovers something unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mindfuckery.

Once Jon is loose from his restraints, Bouchard surprises him by putting a robe on him when he stands up. It's a black, silken thing, a little too short as it only barely covers Jon's buttocks, but it's still the first piece of clothing that Jon has been permitted to wear in a long time; he pulls it tight around himself, closing his eyes as he lets the silk press against his skin. He can feel Bouchard's eyes on him, cold but seeing everything.

"We'll do a tour around the house soon, but let's get you clean first," Bouchard says, resting his arm around Jon's shoulders. Jon shivers, grateful for the layer of fabric that now exists between direct contact. "The bathroom is here downstairs, there is a small toilet upstairs. Your room will be there."

Jon freezes, his eyes opening up as he turns to look at Bouchard. His own room? He was sure he would be put down into the basement, maybe into a cage; he had never thought that he would be given his own space here. He doesn't know what to say, staring at Bouchard in stunned silence, still holding himself tight. He's so confused already and he has barely entered the house. How much worse will it get?

"Comfort first," Bouchard says. "Come on, now."

Jon doesn't resist when Bouchard leads him out of the living room and takes him to the bathroom, which turns out to be quite large. The tub is easily the hugest Jon has ever seen, able to fit more than one person; it makes him wonder if this household gets many visitors, and if he's supposed to entertain them from now on. He shudders at the idea, almost not noticing when Bouchard pulls his arm off his shoulders and steps away.

"I'll let you be alone," he says. "Don't try anything I wouldn't approve."

Bouchard leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Jon stands there for a while before stripping off his robe, letting it fall on the floor as he looks at the tub and the items on the stand next to it. There is shampoo and soap, along with a sponge; he takes the shampoo and opens it so he can sniff it, the scent of vanilla with a touch of something else - leather? - hitting his nostrils. It's not an unpleasant smell, but it's also nothing that Jon would have picked up for himself. He puts the shampoo away and steps away from the tub so he can turn to the mirror cabinet, so he can try to get the collar off.

He pales when he catches his reflection.

The collar is made of steel, but it's heavily decorated, something he hadn't realized before. It wouldn't matter to him if the decorations didn't distinctly resemble the threads of a spider web, if the lock in the front of the collar wasn't shaped like a spider itself. He thinks of Bouchard's words about the collar keeping him in line, and suddenly it makes awful, sickening sense. 

He grasps the collar and starts to pull at it, desperate to get it off.

"Mr. Bouchard!" he shouts, his pride shattering. "Mr. Bouchard, please, come take it off, take it off!"

He yanks desperately on the collar, only managing to gag himself as the steel doesn't yield. He is charging into a panic attack by the time Bouchard enters the bathroom again, wry amusement all over his face.

"What are you shouting here?" he asks, approaching Jon.

"Take it off," Jon pleads, turning towards Bouchard. There are tears in his eyes and they humiliate him, but he faces Bouchard straight on. "Please, take it off."

Bouchard starts to smile.

"I'm not doing that, Jon." Bouchard reaches out, catching a tear that has begun to trickle down Jon's cheek with a crooked finger. "The purpose of that collar is to keep you in line in an easy and efficient way. How else would I keep you running from me, or harming yourself?"

"Please," Jon begs. "I promise to behave. Please."

"No."

Jon opens his mouth to argue, but a horrible thought strikes him, taking his words from him. He stares at Bouchard, his blood going cold as he starts to shake.

"You are Mr. Spider," he whispers, taking a step backwards. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears and it's making him feel dizzy, ill.

Bouchard laughs at him.

"Your childhood monster, you mean? The one that almost ate you?" His smile grows wider and he takes a step towards Jon, and another one to close the distance between them. "The one you saw nightmares about, that made you piss your bed and scared you off from reading books for months afterwards? That Mr. Spider, Jon?"

"Oh god." The words come out as a tiny whimper, his voice so strained it's barely there. Jon can't stop trembling, and he stands there still with terror as Bouchard rests his hands on his shoulders.

"No, Jon, I'm not Mr. Spider. In fact, I make sure to stay out of the Spider's web." Bouchard strokes his shoulders, as if trying to comfort him. "But yes, Jon, I am someone you should be wary of. I hold your life in my hands now, and while I'm ready to make it good for you, I demand a lot from you in return. " He lifts his hand up to Jon's face, stroking his cheek. "Do you think you can take that to your heart?"

Jon, unable to speak, can only manage a curt, tense nod.

"Very good, Jon. I think you should proceed with your bath now." Bouchard tilts his head to the side, watching him closely. "All right?"

Jon shivers, but he manages a stronger nod this time.

"Good." Bouchard lets his hand slide down from Jon's face to his neck, slipping his fingertips briefly beneath the collar before pulling away from him entirely, turning towards the bathroom door. "I will give you some privacy."

Bouchard smiles at him before walking out, closing the door again.

Jon is very glad that he hasn't made any promises to himself about not crying; he sinks down to his knees, burying his mouth into the crook of his elbow as he screams.


	4. to sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon goes to sleep for the first time in his new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual dreams and bedwetting. At this point I could also warn that this story will be rather slow burn, but things will pick up in pace after this chapter.
> 
> Words used to describe Jon's anatomy: cock, chest, folds, mons, pubic mound.

Jon wants to run for his life, but that's not an option. Instead, he fills the tub up with warm water and steps into it, lowering himself down. He leans against the back of it and takes in deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm himself down.

The man who bought him is a monster. Perhaps not Mr. Spider, though Jon isn't entirely convinced that he _isn't_ , but nevertheless someone who has power over minds. He had just read Jon like a book, dug out things that were supposed to be long buried. It's terrifying and Jon almost can't breathe from his despair, but he forces himself to focus, his whole body moving as he inhales and exhales, following a rhythm.

He _has_ to keep it together. He has to be smart, he has to be brave; that's how he'll get out of here. He has to believe that he will get out of here, no matter how dark things seem right now. This has to be worth something, all his suffering.

Jon straightens up in the tub, turning towards the stand next to it to get the shampoo, the soap and the sponge. He doesn't know when he'll get a chance to do this again, so he better get himself clean, wash away the remnants of the market; he can at least take one step forward that way. He loathes the idea of smelling like what Bouchard wants, but that' something he needs to deal with, too. He knows what he's been bought for. He knows what waits for him at the end of the day.

He has to live through it.

With a sigh, still shaking, he pours shampoo onto his palm.

*

After he's done washing himself, Jon dries himself carefully with a soft towel and seeks out a comb from the mirror cabinet. He can barely look at his reflection, the collar so heavy around his neck, but he grits his teeth and does it, returning the comb to the cabinet before picking the robe up from the floor again. He wonders if he will have proper clothes at some point, or if skimpy little robes are all he's ever going to get.

He leaves the bathroom, finding Bouchard standing outside.

"I have prepared a meal for you," Bouchard tells him. "It's in your new room. Shall we go there?"

Jon's heart starts to beat fast again, but he forces himself to nod, following Bouchard as they head upstairs. He supposes Bouchard changed his mind about the tour, going straight to the point instead; Jon is even more aware of the shortness of his robe, how thin it is, how easy it is to pull open. He can't stop himself from shivering as they reach the second floor and he spots two open doors in a hallway.

"That's my room," Bouchard says about the open door on the right side, close to the end of the hallway. The room is dark, but from what Jon can see, it only contains a large bed. "And this one is yours." Bouchard takes Jon to the very end of the hallway, halting so he can let Jon walk past him.

Jon does so, hiding his surprise when Bouchard doesn't try to touch him. He isn't able to keep his eyes from widening when he sees the room itself, which is quite large, at least twice the size of his tiny cell back in his prison. There's a comfortable-looking bed, a desk and a chair, two closets, a dresser and a shelf full of books. It's that last thing that really catches Jon off guard, causing him to gasp. Books. He has books again.

"I would like to keep you intellectually stimulated, so I have selected you some things to read," Bouchard says, stepping into the room as well. "If you explore your desk, you will also notice that I have provided you writing materials. Self expression is important."

Jon glances over to the old, wooden desk, and this is when he notices the food. It's a simple meal, consisting of two sandwiches, a bowl of porridge and a glass of milk, but it's good enough for Jon. He takes a step towards the desk before halting, hesitating before he turns towards Bouchard.

"Are we going to fuck?" he asks, unable to keep a tremor away from his voice.

He frowns in confusion when Bouchard laughs at him.

"No, Jon, we aren't," he says. "I was thinking of showing you around the house today, but I think I will let you catch some sleep after you've finished your meal. There is a toothbrush for you in the toilet."

Jon stares at him, stunned. "But I thought-"

"You have had a long day, Jon. It's all right to rest." Bouchard smiles at him, reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind Jon's ear before turning away. "I will be downstairs if you need me."

He leaves before Jon can say another word, leaving him in his new room.

Jon stands there in silence, unable to believe what just happened. When he is finally able to make himself move, the first thing he does is close the door. It's not surprising that there isn't a lock on it, but it's still disappointing, but at least there is a door and he can close it; it's already something between him and Bouchard. He lingers by the door for a moment, listening closely to any sounds coming from outside, if Bouchard is coming back. If he will be punished.

He hears nothing.

The meal waits for him on his desk, but Jon decides to take a look around first. The closets turn out to be full of clothes, some of them reasonable - button-up shirts, trousers, cargo shorts - while some make him recoil - tiny skirts, corsets, lingerie. In a way, however, the latter are almost welcome; there _are_ expectations for him. He still has a purpose, and he's expected to fulfill it. 

In the meanwhile, however, it's almost as if Bouchard wants to play house. The books in the shelf contain a wide variety of works, from poetry to non-fiction, and they all seem to be works that Jon hasn't read before. He is puzzled when he sees that not all of them are in English; he doesn't know French or Russian, and there doesn't seem to be a dictionary for either. He walks over to the desk and looks into the drawers, finding notebooks and pens, even a drawing pad. He leaves them all be and finally sits by the desk, grasping the spoon and dragging the bowl of porridge over to him.

If playing house is what Bouchard wants to do, Jon can go along with it- for now. He doesn't understand what Bouchard gets out of it, but if that gets Bouchard to lower his guard around him, all the better for him. Maybe he can still be convinced to take the collar off, and once the collar is off, Jon has a chance again.

He will do what it takes to get it.

*

Jon digs up a pair of pyjamas from the closet and goes to bed after the meal, exhausted after his strange day.

It turns out to be a mistake.

He finds himself back in the medical room, strapped down, legs spread wide apart while Bouchard sits on the chair between them, smiling up at him. He runs a fingertip down along Jon's chest to his stomach, then to his pubic mound, then to his cock. He smirks at Jon as he starts to run his fingertip in a circle around Jon's cock, sliding down to stroke his folds for a moment before sliding it up again, and this time it sweeps right over his cock, making it twitch.

"You are my property now," Bouchard says, stroking him, making Jon squirm in his restraints. Bouchard leans down and brushes his lips against Jon's mons, sliding his warm tongue against the bare, sensitive skin. Jon jumps at the touch, fingers curling up. "I hold your life in my hands," Bouchard murmurs against his skin, pressing his nose against it.

Bouchard strokes him faster, harder, sliding his mouth down towards his cock. Jon tenses, yanking on his bonds in a desperate attempt to get away, even as he grows hotter and wetter, as the urge to thrust up into Bouchard's touch grows stronger.

"You should fear me," Bouchard whispers against his cock, and shoves his finger inside Jon.

Jon wakes up with a cry, throbbing all over.

It takes him a moment to realize that the bed has gone very, very wet beneath him.

"Oh no," he whispers. He scrambles up and away, burning with humiliation as he realizes his brand new pyjamas are soiled too, clinging to his skin. He hasn't wetted the bed in years, not since- he has to clean it up, he has to find the laundry room, take the evidence away-

"Jon?"

Except of course Bouchard knows, he's a monster. There is nothing Jon can do to stop Bouchard from opening the door and flicking the light on, and he can only watch as Bouchard's eyes go wide at the sight of his bed.

"Oh, Jon." Bouchard glances at him, his eyes trailing down to Jon's groin. "Oh indeed. I'm so sorry, Jon. Let's go get you clean."

"I didn't mean to," Jon says, desperate. Is he going to be returned now? "I don't know what happened, I-"

"It's all right, Jon. You have gone through a lot, and this was a tough day on you. It's no surprise that something like this happened." Bouchard smiles at him gently, taking a step towards Jon's bed. "You remember where the bathroom is, don't you? Go there and draw yourself a bath, all right? I'll take care of things here."

Jon stares at him, heart racing. "Aren't you mad? I just ruined the bed."

"Jon, listen." Bouchard takes him by the shoulders, holding onto him as he looks Jon in the eyes, and Jon can't see one single trace of anger or even contempt there. It's an utterly surprising sight, and it makes Jon go quiet. "I don't blame you for this. Things like these happen. It's not your fault." Bouchard strokes his shoulders, pats them. "We can fix this, Jon, don't worry about it."

"But-"

"It will be all right, Jon." Bouchard smiles at him again, leaning down to drop a soft kiss on Jon's forehead. "Run along now. I'll be with you shortly."

The kiss burns on his forehead, and yet somehow, Jon's heartbeat calms down a little bit. He doesn't know what to think of what, doesn't want to think anything, so he flees the room. He still doesn’t run.


	5. playing house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon settles into his new home and tries to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains choking.

Jon waits for a punishment for the bed wetting: it doesn't come. He is allowed to bathe in peace and afterwards, Bouchard provides him with a new, clean pair of pyjamas. He doesn't let Jon back into his room, taking him to one of the other rooms on the second floor instead.

"The bed needs to dry, so you can spend the night here," Bouchard tells him, opening the door to a small guest room. "We will have to observe if this becomes a habit. If yes, we'll have to resort to some preventive methods."

Jon is pretty sure he knows what that means, and the mere idea makes him blush with shame. "I won't do it again," he says, taking a tentative step into the room.

He stiffens when Bouchard reaches out and grasps him by his neck, right above his collar.

"You don't have to worry, Jon," Bouchard says softly. "I won't punish you for things you couldn't help. That wouldn't be fair." Bouchard's slim fingers hold on for a moment before releasing Jon, and as Jon turns to look at him, he sees Bouchard step out of the room. "Try to get some rest. Peacefully, this time."

Jon resists the urge to lift his hand up to where Bouchard touched him until the man is gone. His fingers brush against the collar as he does so, making him grimace; he _has_ to get rid of that thing. It's only been his first day here and he already feels like he's been pushed to his limits, which has to be part of the plan; Bouchard is wearing him down for something and the worst thing is, so far it's working. 

He has to put a stop to that.

But right now, he really is exhausted. After closing the door, Jon pulls the blankets aside and crawls into the bed, and this time he drifts off to dreamless sleep.

*

The next day, he finds himself alone in the house.

It’s utterly baffling. It becomes soon clear that it doesn’t matter: when Jon thinks about trying to call for help or leaving the house, he simply finds himself unable to do either of those things. The desire is there, the will to do anything about them isn’t; robbed from him by the collar, he knows. It makes him gnash his teeth, knowing he’s so helpless.

Having no other options, Jon sets out to explore the house. In this, he has a certain amount of freedom; he can try out every door, he can enter the room behind one if he’s able to open it, he can look into drawers and shelves, he can look behind pictures, he can explore the walls for hidden secrets. He is even able to step out into the garden through the back door and look around, although once again, he can only think about trying to climb over the fence or screaming for help, shivering all over as he tries to will his body to actually commit to either act. In the end, he kicks at the soil and goes back inside, heading into the library.

It’s both the most interesting part of the house and the most disappointing. The library is large and extensive, hosting a wide variety of works to the point Jon feels a little overwhelmed. He looks through the shelves, trying to pick up on subjects and themes that are of particular interest to Bouchard, but nothing really stands out to him. It makes Jon wonder if this is really a personal collection or just something that Bouchard keeps up for appearances. It gives him no ideas about what Bouchard likes, no insights into his character. Frustrated, he leaves.

Jon goes to the living room, hugging himself as he looks around. He can’t leave the house, he can’t call for help, he can’t harm himself; he had not thought about harming Bouchard while he was here, but Jon is sure he can’t do that either. But it seems like he is able to do everything else, even cause a little damage in the garden by ruining the grass; maybe he will be able to find something here that will help him get rid of the collar. He stares at the shelf, eyes widening when he sees a jar full of paperclips.

He takes a tentative step towards the shelf, then another one as the collar doesn’t stop him. He makes his way over to the jar and reaches inside, fishing for the biggest, thickest clip in the bunch. Jon has never tried to pick on a lock, he has no idea if paper clips even qualify for such a task, but if he can, he has to give it a try. The collar doesn’t stop him when he pulls the clip out, and pushes it into the pocket of his trousers. He jumps when he hears rattling from the front door, stepping hastily away from the shelf.

“Jon?” Bouchard calls out, and Jon can hear him pull the door shut behind him. “Where are you?”

“In the living room.” Jon’s eyes drift to the clock on the wall, surprised to see that it’s only midday. He’s not sure when he woke up himself anymore, but either way, Bouchard hasn’t been gone for long. He tries not to tremble when Bouchard walks into the living room, carrying a grocery bag along with a briefcase. The grocery bag makes him look so normal, which disturbs Jon; he has to look away.

“I see you have made yourself comfortable,” Bouchard says, and Jon can feel his eyes on him, taking notice of everything. “Do you like the house?”

“It’s all right.” Jon hopes that the paper clip isn’t poking through the fabric of his trousers, which is thin. All the clothes he has fit him very closely, revealing the lines of his body, leaving little to imagination. “What day is it?” he asks, not wanting to ask directly where Bouchard was. Jon doesn’t want him to think that Jon missed him.

“It’s Monday, so a work day for me.” Bouchard sets the briefcase and the grocery down onto the floor, unbuttoning his suit jacket with one hand as he steps closer to Jon. “Of course, it would have been better if I had bought you before a vacation so we would have more time to get to know each other, but my schedule tends to be unforgiving.” Bouchard smiles. “You seem to be doing fine here, though.”

Jon grits his teeth. Arsehole.

“I guess,” he says. “So, what are you going to do now?”

He keeps expecting it, Bouchard to force him down onto some surface and pull his clothes off. But Bouchard just smiles, reaching out to run his fingertips down Jon’s cheek before gesturing to the grocery bag.

“I’m going to put you to work,” he says. “I have a housekeeper who comes here once a week, but I would like us to share household duties for the rest of the days. I think you could take responsibility for our meals.”

Share household duties, as if they’re roommates. Jon narrows his eyes at Bouchard, wanting so much to yell at him about what he thinks of his stupid idea, but he bites his tongue, glancing down at the grocery bag. “I don’t know much about cooking,” he admits.

“You don’t need to. I don’t expect anything complicated from you.” Bouchard smiles at him, picking up his briefcase again. “We will get to your other duties in time, Jon, but let’s start out with simple, straightforward things. I bought you some ingredients you can get started with.” He lifts his eyebrow at Jon. “Are you up for the challenge?”

“Do I have a choice?” Jon grumbles, staying where he is. Which surprises him; nothing is forcing him to pick up the bag, to do what Bouchard says. But that can probably change, he thinks, so he doesn’t linger on his spot for long, reaching down to pick up the bag. “I’ll make no promises about producing anything edible,” he says.

“The important thing is that you try.” Bouchard gives his shoulder a squeeze before turning away. “I’ll be at my study if you need me. I have faith in you, Jon.”

Jon grimaces at Bouchard’s back as he leaves, relieved that the paper clip is still safe in his pocket. In the evening, he will give it a try. He takes the bag and heads into the kitchen.

*

It has been ages since Jon has tried to cook anything. His grandmother had him help in the kitchen from time to time, but she was usually the one responsible for their meals; Jon really can’t do much aside from boiling something and making a sauce. So that’s what he does: he prepares him and Bouchard pasta and a simple salad, remaining nervous through the whole process. He doesn’t afford to be punished for any misdeeds right now, not before he gets to make his escape attempt.

To his relief, he doesn’t screw up. As much as he loathes to do so, Jon takes the initiative in setting up the table in the dining room as well, and it’s when everything is ready that Bouchard shows up, having taken his suit jacket and tie off. The top buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, revealing his throat, which could be a sign of vulnerability, but to Jon it just feels like mockery, making him even more aware of his collar. He wants to finger the paperclip in his pocket, but he keeps his hands away from there, and tries to act casual.

“Well done, Jon,” Bouchard says, sliding his hand across Jon’s shoulders. Jon shivers at the touch, but doesn’t say anything, allowing Bouchard to speak on: “I will encourage you to be bold in the kitchen, however. Trying new things will do you good. There is a recipe book that you can use.”

Jon almost rolls his eyes at that.

“I guess I need to clean up after we’re done,” Jon comments as they sit down together.

“Yes. I will help you with that.” Bouchard eyes the plate of pasta before him, taking his time picking up the fork. That sort of offends Jon; it wasn’t _his_ idea to make him cook. “We can also talk about other things that you can do here, as well as about your curfew. I will make full use of you and your abilities, you can count on that.”

Bouchard’s voice is airy and casual, but his words make Jon’s stomach knot with fear anyway. Yes, he is sure of that too; no matter how much Bouchard is stretching things out, he will eventually use Jon. He has to get away before that happens.

“Right,” he says. “Shall we eat?”

Bouchard smiles and nods.

*

The rest of the day is quiet, which is unsettling in a way, but also a relief. Jon stays in his room for most of it, lying in his now dry bed, examining the books on his shelf. He keeps listening to what Bouchard is doing, but the man doesn’t leave his study that much; Jon wonders what he’s doing there, what kind of work he actually does, but he makes no attempts to go see him. If he’s lucky, he will get away from Bouchard tonight.

Still, he’s more curious than he’d like to be.

Bouchard comes to see him late in the evening, right before Jon is set to go to bed.

“You have been very good today, Jon.” Bouchard smiles at him from the doorway, leaning against the frame. “I hope you can see it now, that your life can be pleasant and peaceful with me.”

“I guess.” It would probably be better if he outright agreed, but Jon can’t bring himself to do it. He won’t, ever. He hugs himself, licking his lips. “Are you going to fuck me?”

Bouchard keeps smiling.

“Good night,” he says, stepping away and closing the door.

Jon puts the lights out and goes into bed, and listens. He waits for a long time, listening as Bouchard retires to bed as well, and then waits until he can’t hear anything else. He is quiet when he gets out of the bed, when he sneaks over to the chair by his desk and seeks out his trousers, digging into its pocket for the paper clip.

He sits down on the floor, straightening the clip out as he grasps his collar, swallowing hard. It is suspicious, isn’t it? That he’s allowed to do this, that the collar doesn’t stop him from trying to open it. It has to be some kind of a trap. He starts to shake, hesitating. What if something bad will happen? What if Bouchard is alarmed to this, and comes to hurt him?

What if this is his one chance to get away?

Jon swallows again, and guides the end of the clip inside the lock of the collar.

Instantly, the whole collar clamps around his throat.

Jon drops the clip and grasps the collar, trying to wrench his fingers underneath it. The steel pulls tight against his skin, stealing his breath away and Jon panics, trying to jump up to his feet. He stumbles instead, dropping back down onto the floor as he tries to get a proper hold of the collar, tries to keep it from choking him, but it gets tighter and tighter around his neck. He tries to scream, but only a shallow gurgle escapes him. He kicks out with his legs, but it does nothing to ease the agony around his throat, in his lungs. He gags, desperate for air, lying on his back on the floor as he claws at his neck, frantic.

That’s when he realizes that he’s not alone in the room.

Bouchard is standing right above him, staring down at him with ice cold eyes. Jon is starting to feel faint, but he tries to sit up, get on his knees so he can beg. His eyes are full of tears, the world is turning white in his eyes and he falls down to his side, twitching. He gives the collar one more feeble yank, head swimming.

He’s barely aware of Bouchard kneeling down next to him, but he sees his hand extend out to him and it makes him flinch. Bouchard touches his collar and in an instant its hold loosens up, returning to its original state and letting Jon breathe again.

Jon gulps for air, then bursts into tears.

Bouchard remains there for a moment, not trying to touch him, simply staring at him in silence as Jon weeps. Bouchard doesn’t say a word as he stands up and turns away, leaving Jon alone in the room.

Curling up into a ball, Jon rocks himself on the floor, pressing his face to his knees as he cries himself to sleep.

*

The next day, Jon is still on the floor when he wakes up. He’s cold and miserable, still shaky all over, but he’s also burning up inside, wanting to scream. He gets up on his knees and seeks out his clothes, listening to the sounds coming from downstairs as he dresses up.

Bouchard is in the kitchen when Jon goes downstairs, preparing a tray with fruits and sandwiches.

“Good morning, Jon,” he says, not looking at him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Fuck you.”

“I assume that’s a no.” Bouchard sighs, leaving the tray be as he turns towards Jon. “Are you satisfied with yourself, Jon? Are you happy with your great escape attempt?”

Bouchard’s voice is calm - it has always been calm, through this entire short time that Jon has known him - and it drives Jon absolutely crazy. Jon closes his eyes, trying his hardest to keep his composure together, but he can’t stop the sting of tears in his eyes, the rage bubbling up in his chest.

“You just watched,” he says. “I almost died and you just watched.”

“You tried to escape, Jon. You deserved a punishment for that.” Bouchard’s mouth quirks with a slight smile. “I could have let it happen, you know. Let it choke you to death and done absolutely nothing to stop it. But I did stop it, Jon.”

“Why?” It keeps ringing in his head: _you deserved it._ He deserved this, the bruises on his neck, his hoarse voice, for not wanting to be a toy, for wanting to be free. Jon is shaking all over now, and as hard as he squeezes his eyes shut, he can’t stop tears from falling, trickling down to his cheeks.

“Because I want you.” Bouchard’s footsteps are soft as he walks towards him, his hand gentle when he rests it down on Jon’s cheek. “I could have anyone I asked for, Jon, but it was you I chose. You are mine now, and I will make it clear to you.”

Without a warning, Bouchard’s hand slides down to his throat, gripping it.

“And that’s why I need to put you in your place,” he whispers, pulling Jon near. “One punishment obviously isn’t enough, Jon. You will get another one.”


	6. fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is punished for his escape attempt, and things start to get heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for paddling, aphrodisiacs and forced feminization.
> 
> Words used for Jon's anatomy: cock, cunt, slit, folds, pubic mound.

Jon's heart races fast in his chest as he enters Bouchard's study, followed by the man himself. He shakes all over when he hears Bouchard lock the door behind them, licking his dry lips.

"I would like you to take your clothes off now," Bouchard says once the door is locked, turning to him. "After that, I want you to lean against my desk."

Bouchard's voice is cold and hard, and Jon knows there is no use negotiating with him. Trembling, he starts to strip himself nude, aware of Bouchard's eyes on him, roving over every bared inch of flesh. It's going to happen, he knows it; Bouchard is going to fuck him, and it's going to hurt. Jon's breathing grows heavier the more he exposes himself, his nipples stiffening in the cool room as his upper body is left bare, his chest and stomach heaving as he starts to remove his trousers. He tries to keep his body as shielded as possible even as he strips, but of course Bouchard notices.

"Don't try to hide," Bouchard scolds. "You are here to be seen, Jon. Let me see you."

Biting his lip, Jon shoves his trousers down his legs, hesitating before doing the same with his underwear. He burns with shame when he sees that his slit is gleaming a little as he lowers his boxers, as if he's excited by this. He tries to ignore that as he steps out of his clothes and walks over to the desk, licking his lips again as he grabs its edge and leans down.

Bouchard circles to the other side of the desk, opening a drawer from the top. He pulls something out, lifting it before Jon's face.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks.

If Jon wasn’t so nervous, he would roll his eyes at the question: it’s obvious what he’s looking at. "A paddle."

"That's right," Bouchard says, nodding. "Can you guess what I'm going to use it for?"

Jon swallows. At the market, the preferred method of discipline had been the cattle prod; he doesn't miss its scalding touch, but it had created some distance between him and his handlers at least. Paddle isn’t a bare hand, but it's not distant enough; this will be something more intimate than what he has experienced before. It makes his stomach knot, his fingers tighten around the edge of the desk.

"Spanking," he whispers. When Bouchard keeps staring at him with obvious expectation in his eyes, he says in a louder voice: "You will spank me."

"Also correct." Bouchard smiles at him for the first time since they entered the study, circling behind Jon. "How many strikes do you think you deserve?"

None. The answer is none, and they both know it. Jon knows he needs to say something, pick a number he can handle, but his pride doesn't let him talk; he stares down at the desk instead, grinding his teeth together as his fingers clench down against the solid wood.

Bouchard chuckles. "Well then, let's see how many you can handle," he says, and Jon hears him swing the paddle.

The blow lands straight on Jon's arse, stinging on his bare flesh. Jon cries out instantly, much to his shame, but Bouchard doesn't let that stop him; he strikes Jon again, sharply and several times, bruising his arse and the backs of his thighs. Jon whimpers and flinches over each swat, gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles go pale. He hangs his head down, squeezing his eyes tight shut. 

"What a stoic boy you are." Bouchard gives him a moment to catch his breath, running the paddle over Jon's burning arse as he leans over him, pushing his fingers into Jon's hair and stroking them through the curly locks. "Will you apologize to me? I might stop sooner."

Jon grits his teeth, pinching his lips together.

"As you wish." Bouchard chuckles before pulling his hand away, and continues.

Jon tries not to weep; he fails in this effort, a sob breaking out of him as soon as a strike lands on a spot already sore, his hands itching with the urge to protect his white-hot, aching flesh. But he holds his position, stays in his spot even as he wants to twist his body away and flee.

 _Later_ , he tells himself, breathless even in his own mind. _Later._

It takes him a moment to realize that Bouchard has stopped.

"I think that's enough for now." Bouchard rests his hand on Jon's naked back, dragging his fingertips across his skin. "This stubbornness won't, however, help you. I suggest you try to work your way past it, and try to adjust to your situation instead."

Jon scoffs inside. Bouchard would like that, he knows.

"Are we done?" he asks, unable to keep his voice from trembling.

"Not yet." Bouchard pulls his hand away and walks around the desk again, back to the open drawer. He puts the paddle back in and picks up a small bottle, opening it while he paces back behind Jon.

Jon tenses, thinking that this is it; _now_ Bouchard will fuck him. He hisses when Bouchard pours cool gel down on his aching arse, flinching when Bouchard starts to knead it into his flesh with one hand while putting the bottle away on the corner of the desk with another. Once the bottle is out of the way, Bouchard uses both of his hands, rubbing the gel into Jon's buttocks and the backs of his thighs.

"Stubbornness aside, you did well," Bouchard comments, seeking out a bruise on Jon’s arse cheek with his thumb. He rubs it, making Jon squirm in pain. "You took your punishment without a complaint. That shows me you want to be good, Jon. It's all right to let yourself be that."

The thumb eases between Jon’s arse cheeks, joined by the other one, stroking the flesh there before Bouchard slips his hands down between Jon's thighs, pushing them even wider open. Jon pants as he hears Bouchard kneel down, as fingertips brush against his damp slit.

"My goodness, I don't think I expected this." Jon can tell from Bouchard's voice that he is smiling, widely and with teeth. "Does being disciplined arouse you, Jon? Are you a masochist?"

"No," Jon whimpers, gasping as Bouchard runs a thumb along his slit, from the rim of his hole all the way to the swell of his cock. Bouchard rests his thumb down on Jon's cock and it _throbs_ , and Jon closes his eyes in a useless effort to fight the burning feeling inside his body, his heart beating so hard and fast he can't hear anything else. He feels sick. He feels like he's going to faint.

Bouchard keeps his thumb there, not rubbing down, not doing anything. Jon wants to scream at him, tell him to get it over with already, but he can't bring himself to make any sound, too frozen with fear.

He shudders in relief when Bouchard pulls his hand away, when he hears him stand up again.

"Dress up," Bouchard says, his voice low. "We will enjoy our breakfast now. Peacefully, Jon."

Bouchard stays there, standing still. Jon doesn't look at him as he lets go of the desk, his face and body both flushed as he steps backwards, and looks around for his clothes.

*

Jon decides he won’t try to fiddle with the collar again. He hates that he has to give up on his attempts to escape, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t have any other choice; his only hope is to convince Bouchard to take the collar off, and given how badly their relationship has started, that is going to take a while. In the meantime, Jon has to try to settle into his new life and make the best of it.

The rest of the day is uneventful, and as if aware of the thoughts that have been going through Jon’s mind, Bouchard keeps his distance, saying nothing to Jon during their dinner and not coming to wish him goodnight in the evening. It’s a bad development, given how badly Jon needs to get into Bouchard’s good graces, but much to his shame, Jon is also shaken inside by Bouchard’s new coldness. Bouchard is all he has. As much as Jon doesn’t want him, the rejection hurts.

He tries not to feel so lonely when he goes to bed that night.

*

"Such a good boy."

A hand travels up his stomach and down again, dipping lower each time it comes down. Jon shivers, squirming as a knee presses between his thighs and pushes them open, exposing him, making him vulnerable.

"Things can be very good for you with me, Jon. All I require from you is a little co-operation." Bouchard’s hand slides low on Jon’s pubic mound, fingertips brushing close to Jon’s cock. "A little sweetness."

"I don’t want to give you any," Jon says, although his breathing is growing heavy. He bites his lip when Bouchard slips his hand all the way between his thighs, petting his folds, his cock.

Bouchard chuckles. "You will."

When Jon wakes up, he doesn’t wet himself, but he is hot between his legs, and bothered.

*

The dreams, on their own, are understandable. Jon spent a long time at the market, getting trained for sex; it’s expected that he dreams of Bouchard, who is a constant presence, and that his dreams are sexual in nature. It doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t say anything about Jon. He keeps telling himself this as the week goes on, as he tries to live his new life.

But it isn’t just dreams.

Jon thinks about Bouchard during daytime, about his cold eyes, his smooth voice, his hands. As he makes dinner for the two of them, he thinks about their first meeting at the market, about lying helplessly on the medical table while Bouchard leaned between his legs, as he slid his finger inside and stroked his cock. It’s a distressing, horrible memory, but every time Jon’s thoughts slip to it, warmth floods between his legs, up into his cheeks. He thinks about the spanking, about the collar choking him and Bouchard watching him, and his reaction is the same: sharp pang of fear followed by a swell of arousal. He’s ashamed of it, but he can’t stop.

In fact, it eventually hits him: he genuinely can’t.

"What are you doing to me?" he asks during a dinner, shaking.

Bouchard has been cool to him during the entire week, and even now he barely reacts when Jon addresses him. But he meets Jon’s eyes, and as sad as it is, part of Jon is glad for that.

"I don’t understand what you mean," Bouchard says in a calm voice. "I have tried to give you space, Jon. I’m sure you’ve noticed."

"You _are_ doing something to me." Even now as he sits by the dinner table, trying to talk to this man, Jon feels like squirming on his seat, his thighs rubbing together without any conscious input from him. He tries to stop it once he realizes what he’s doing, but that just makes him more aware of the heat on his face, the dryness of his mouth. "Is it the collar? You are making me-" He pauses, biting his lip. He stares at the soft line of Bouchard’s mouth, his lips.

"Making you do what?" Bouchard asks.

"Feel things." Jon closes his eyes, gritting his teeth. "Stop."

When he opens his eyes, Bouchard is smiling.

"You know, Jon, it could be just you." he says. "Why would I need to make you feel anything? You are an emotional, passionate boy. You feel enough all on your own." Bouchard stands up, picking up their empty plates. "That’s why I have kept my distance lately, Jon. I wished to give you a chance to figure things out."

Jon scoffs. "Don’t you ever get tired of being so full of it?"

"I see it’s still a work in progress." But Bouchard is amused now, smiling at Jon as he walks past him. "Care to join me in the kitchen? I think we could wash the dishes together."

So, now Bouchard wants to pretend they’re some kind of a family again. Jon doesn’t believe for one moment that these thoughts and feelings he’s been having are normal, that Bouchard has nothing to do with them. But if Jon wants to get anywhere with his captor, he has to play his game.

"Sure," he says.

*

Of course, it’s Jon who has to do the washing. He doesn’t mind it so much - he used to do this at home a lot - but he does mind the fact that Bouchard is behind him when he works, watching his every move. It makes him feel vulnerable, having Bouchard there, but it also doesn’t ease the heat inside him. He tries to focus on the dishes, keep his mind clear.

"I don’t believe you, you know," he says to Bouchard as he scrubs.

"Yes, we certainly have our share of trust issues." Jon doesn’t need to see Bouchard to know that he’s smiling, that he’s entertained. "It doesn’t have to be so hard for you. You’re the one who can improve your situation, Jon, remember that."

Jon could ask how; he is sure Bouchard has suggestions. He bites his lip, and ignores the insistent little twitch between his legs, tries not to wonder how close to him Bouchard is standing, if he could lean against him.

*

He holds out for two more days before he reaches his breaking point.

He is almost used to the dreams by them, even to the daytime ones. He is almost used to the constant slick on the insides of his thighs, to having to change his underwear all the time, to never getting a moment of peace from the thoughts of Bouchard. He is deceiving himself: he isn’t used to any of it. His breakdown was bound to happen; the only thing that is surprising about it is how ridiculously little it takes in the end.

What it takes is that Bouchard is in the living room, sitting on the sofa and reading while music plays. Jon is watching him from the distance, contemplating whether he should try to pretend to be civil and join him there like did the day before, but he feels distracted, the warmth between his thighs already unbearable. He should just go to his room, he thinks, he should just-

"Oh:"

Bouchard lifts his hand from the page he was just flipping. His thumb is bleeding. 

"How clumsy of me."

Turning his head towards Jon, Bouchard stares at him, holding his thumb up. He sweeps it between his lips, lets the blood drip on his tongue before closing his lips around the thumb, sucking.

Jon flees.

*

In his own room, Jon goes to his wardrobe.

He has tried not to explore it too much, sticking to the simple, normal clothes, ignoring the ones that come with filthy expectations. Now, he goes for the latter garments, pulling them out of the wardrobe and tossing them over to his bed, scavenging through them for something that doesn’t make him feel entirely sick. His entire body seems to be on fire, the yearning inside him unbearable.

A desperate little laughter bursts out of him when he comes upon pieces of a schoolgirl uniform, which are somehow both innocent and utterly obscene. He shakes, clutching the blouse and the skirt in his hands, closing his eyes tight as he feels something warm and slick gush out of him. He can already feel it on him, the uniform, feel where the skirt falls, how tightly the blouse sits on him.

Bouchard better like it.

Jon starts to strip down.

*

He completes the look with a pair of long, black socks, going just a little over his knees. He goes to the bathroom to comb his hair, staring at his own miserable face from the mirror. He thinks about wearing make-up - there is some right there in the bathroom cupboard, contained in a little bag - before opting against it; his bare face will have to do. Jon splashes his face with water to cool himself down a little bit before leaving the bathroom. His heart beats fast in his chest, hammering as he hurries down the stairs.

Bouchard is still in the living room, still with his book. He doesn’t instantly look up when Jon walks in front of him, but when he does, his eyes widen at the sight of Jon before he smiles slowly.

"What are you doing, Jon?" he asks, his voice soft.

Jon bites his lip, saying nothing. He takes a step forward, hesitating before he lifts his knee up and rests it on the sofa between Bouchard’s thighs. Bouchard’s eyebrow tilts up, but he sits up, putting his book aside.

"I’m doing what you got me for," Jon says, swallowing before he leans in, reaching out and resting his arms around Bouchard’s neck.

Bouchard’s shoulders feel solid underneath his arms, and his eyes are the coolest grey Jon has ever seen as Jon looks into them. It’s hard to read Bouchard’s expression, it always is; Bouchard is smiling, there are crinkles around his eyes, but there is also something so cold in his gaze, and Jon wants to shiver. He doesn’t until Bouchard brings his hand to his face and cups his cheek, stroking him with his thumb.

"Why don’t you kiss me?"

Jon has never kissed anyone in his life. He hesitates, licking his lips as he stares at Bouchard’s soft mouth, shivering again as Bouchard loops his arms around his waist and lets them rest there, loose and light. He keeps staring at Jon, and although his facial expression doesn’t change, heat enters his eyes.

Leaning in, Jon presses his mouth against Bouchard’s, brushing their lips together. Bouchard’s eyes slide shut over the touch, his breathing growing heavier, and his arms tighten around Jon’s waist as he pulls him nearer. Bouchard opens his mouth against his, urging Jon’s lips to part too, and as Jon gasps, Bouchard’s tongue slides into his mouth, turning the kiss deeper.

Jon changed his boxers before coming to the living room again; he is already soaking through this new pair, his whole cunt throbbing and clenching as he moans into Bouchard’s mouth, falling forward against him. His groin comes to contact with Bouchard’s and he shivers as he feels Bouchard’s cock press against him through his slacks, feels its size, wonders how it will feel like inside him. He wants it inside him, wants Bouchard to pin him on this sofa and push his legs up, drive into him so hard and deep that he’ll feel it for days-

Bouchard shoves him away.

The shove doesn’t send him all the way to the floor, but it pushes him back from Bouchard’s mouth and from his clothed cock, and Jon finds himself reeling. He shakes his head, tries to lean in again, but Bouchard grabs him by his arms, starting to stand up from the sofa. As he does so, Jon is forced to back off from the sofa and stand up too, still drenched between his legs, still utterly confused.

"If you want my cock, Jon, I expect a better performance than this lackluster effort." Bouchard’s eyes are cold again, and merciless. "Think about how you can improve on this."

Releasing him, Bouchard picks up his book and leaves Jon in the living room, leaves him screaming inside.


End file.
